Let the Flames Begin
by Lady Perditus
Summary: Amongst the smell of ash and fire and blood, Sam Winchester couldn't bring himself to regret a single thing. Oneshot.


**AN: I fear for my Sammy. This is just an idea on how I could view things going down, and I know the idea has been cast out there and quite a few stories have been done on it, but I really just wanted to focus on Sam's reactions/reasoning for undertaking the trials rather than the trial itself. (Does that make sense?)**

**Extra note: Written BEFORE yesterday's episode, I just didn't get around to posting it before today.**

**Disclaimer: The beautiful Winchester boys do not belong to me. *stares from afar***

**Summary: Amongst the smell of ash and fire and blood, Sam Winchester couldn't bring himself to regret a single thing.**

* * *

For someone who had been a hunter their whole lives, gone to hell for decades, and seen more evil in this world than most people could dream of, Dean Winchester was grossly optimistic. Okay, maybe _optimistic _wasn't the right word, but naïve sure wasn't either, but Sam's big brother seemed awfully sure of himself that both men would make it out of the trials alive. And it wasn't as though Sam viewed this as a kamikaze mission—quite the opposite in fact, he _wanted _to reach the light at this shitty-looking tunnel and maybe get back to a life that didn't involve the constant danger of hunting, but as time wore on and the side effects grew worse and worse he began to have his doubts. Even Castiel said he was unable to help Sam, and though neither Winchester would ever admit it, that scared them. It scared Dean because he didn't want to lose his brother and it scared Sam because that meant there was probably going to be a hefty price to pay at the end of these trials.

Which was why he wasn't surprised when he discovered the third trial. Dean was fuming, pacing around the Men of Letters bunker and raging at nobody in particular, torn between blaming himself for failing to kill the hellhound all those weeks ago and cursing Lady Luck for granting their family the misfortune of the century.

"Why can't anything ever be easy for us?" He demanded, green eyes dark with fury and buried pain. His hands were constantly clenching and unclenching, leaving crescent moons on his palms from digging his nails into the calloused skin.

"When have things ever been easy for us Dean?" Sam sighed, feeling—and looking—exhausted and about ten years older than he actually was. "I knew what I was getting into when I took on the first trial."

"You don't have to do this Sam." Dean quietly told him and part of Sam knew there was an unspoken plea for him to let Dean take over and make sure his baby brother was safe, and as tempting as the offer was Sam wouldn't have it any other way.

"Yes, I do." He affirmed, slowly standing up to make his way to his room and get some rest before they headed out in the morning. A deep, rattling cough was emitted from his chest as he walked away and Sam didn't even have to look at his hand to know there would be blood there; mocking and tainted and scarlet.

_The hero must single-handedly spill blood to close the gates._

Sure, that didn't spell out death. Spilling blood didn't mean Sam would have to lie in front of the gate with his throat torn open as some sick form of sacrifice. (He tried to push that image out of his head; he still had enough nightmares from his time in the Cage and really didn't need more grotesque images to fill in the lines between).

Theoretically, spilling blood could be something as small as a paper cut, but as Sam said earlier, when had things ever been easy for the Winchester sons and Co.? What hadn't they had to sacrifice to save the world on various occasions? (There was a bitter taste in the back of his throat when he thought of sacrifice but knew he was being unfair. He broke the world so it was his responsibility to fix it.)

That night he fell asleep with the terrifying thought of leaving Dean all alone in the world and realized he probably wasn't going to make it out of these trials alive.

* * *

Hell was just as hot as he remembered. Standing in front of the open gates was like getting a blast of hot oven air in your face (Sam snorted in amusement because he knew what was waiting inside Hell was a lot worse than waiting for your cookies to finish baking).

Sam was suddenly glad he guilted Dean into standing a further distance away (_How would you feel if we close the gates but it didn't work? You helping doesn't exactly count as single-handedly.) _and he stared in the abyss.

He was vaguely reminded of that old quote and wondered if the abyss was staring back and scoffing at this one man's pitiful attempts to block demons off from the world forever. But Sam could do this—he would, because he owed it to a lot of people.

His mom, for one, who died pinned to the ceiling and probably terrified, not for herself but for the fate of her children in her last moments.

Jess, who Sam knew had to be scared as she burned to death and bled from her stomach. Her only crime was not running as far and fast as she could after meeting the youngest Winchester.

There were more-innocents like Meg Masters and Agent Henrikson and countless other civilians with no names or face but still managed to sucker punch Sam in the stomach every time he thought of them.

But most of all he owed it to his brother…just because they were family and he gave up so much for Sam and deserved a whole lot more than he ended up getting. Just because he went to Hell at the hands of a demon for his baby brother. Just because Sam wanted to apologize in the only way he knew how to for all the betrayals and heartaches he caused Dean. Just because Sam loved his big brother more than words could ever say and _he was doing this for him most of all._

A sudden calm washed over the tall hunter. All the pain seemed to recede for a few, blissful moments because of the unexpected revelation. He knew why he didn't let Dean take on these trials and amongst the smell of ash and fire and blood, facing down the jaws of Hell, Sam Winchester couldn't bring himself to regret a single thing as he stepped forward.


End file.
